


Faint Young Sun

by orphan_account



Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Abduction, Bondage, Community: rotg_kink, Emotional Manipulation, I REGRET NOTHING, I'm going to hell for writing this, M/M, Master/Slave, Molestation, Slender Sandy, Sociopathic Behavior, Tall Sandy, Tall Sandy is a creep FYI, Whump Pitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-29
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-06 21:52:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/740547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on this comic by Mika http://mikaeriksenweiseth.tumblr.com/post/45572414940/sandy-pitch-what-have-i-done</p><p>In which Tall Sandy is a creep who doesn't understand the concept of personal space...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my lovely beta, KS_Claw, and my clever friend Pretzel_Logic, who came up with the awesome title for this fic.

Wisps of golden sand floated lazily through the castle windows, carrying with them the wishes and dreams of sleeping children. They drifted in and out; those whose dreams had been spent wandered back to the heart of the castle where dwelled their master, reclining upon an nest of elegant pillows with eyes half lidded. Most who knew the Sandman would think this man a stranger. He was a tall, lean man, with creamy-gold skin and long, long legs.

But he was no impostor. The man who now lounged in the Sandman's Castle was none other than the Dream Weaver himself, and for the first time in eons, he felt an ancient power coursing through him. 

Sandy yawned, back arching off of the pillows as he stretched his brand new body. Well, it wasn't exactly new. A very long time ago, long before the Nightmare War had scattered unparalleled evils across the cosmos, the Dream Weaver had been known by a different face. Back then he'd been a pilot, and he'd sailed the cosmos at his leisure, granting wishes to all who glimpsed his gilded star ship. 

But that time had ended with the rise of the Nightmare King. Amidst the horror of battle, a wounded star fell to the young planet known as Earth. It was here, on a little golden island (the floating remains of his once magnificent ship) that the Dream Pilot awoke; weak, injured, and very much diminished. He would find that his body had shrunken itself, perhaps in an effort to conserve energy. It was his hope that the transformation would be only temporary, and would fade once he'd regained his strength. But alas, he never did quite get back up to speed.

That was, until now. 

After rearranging a few pillows, Sandy turned his back to the open window of his chamber and shut his eyes for a much needed nap. One of the greater perks of his restored powers meant that he no longer needed to actively spread dreams. Now, it took a mere thought, and the dreams spun themselves, guided by the wishes of unconscious minds. And so it was that the Sandman could do his job from the comfort of his island home. He was now free to lounge as he liked, without ever having to lift a finger. 

It was on a warm summer morning that some peculiarity was brought to the Sandman's attention. As usual, he was splayed out upon his lovely pillows when a wisp of Dream Sand floated to him, tickling his nose until finally he cracked an eye open. There he saw the wisp, twisting and curling, as though anxious about something. Sandy simply held out his hand; the minute the wisp brushed against his open palm, an image flashed into his mind. An image that brought him immediately to his feet.

What he saw was a man lying in the grass; an emaciated body with sickly pale skin barely clothed in black, tattered robes 

Two words came to mind.

_Pitch Black._

With a flick of the wrist, Sandy called a few accessories to himself; golden boots for his feet, and a rich dark coat to throw over her shoulders. And while most would say that anything of the color black did not suit the Weaver of Dreams, Sandy thought he liked to way it contrasted so starkly with the bright gold and pale cream colors of his wardrobe. He found it flattering even. 

With little more ado, the Sandman went out into the world, hovering on one of his golden clouds as a wisp of Dream Sand lead the way. In a few hours time, he'd made it to a familiar little town somewhere in North America. As he recalled, this was the home of Jamie Bennett, the little boy to whom the Guardians now owed their very lives. Since his resurrection on that fateful Easter, Sandy had taken extra care that all the sweetest, most wonderful dreams found their way to the Bennett household. It was the least he could do to return the favor. 

It was not long after he arrived in Burgess that Sandy found what he was looking for. As promised, the wisp lead him deep into the woods, where a prone form could be seen sprawled across the ground. It was unmistakably the form of Pitch Black. 

Light as a snowflake, Sandy hopped down from his cloud and crouched beside the fallen Boogeyman. At first, he wondered that the man might be dead. Only upon pressing his ear to the man's chest did he detect any sign of life: a muffled, uneven heartbeat. 

Sitting back upright, Sandy frowned, suffering some indecision. Though, all things considered, his next course of action should be painfully clear, Sandy found himself at a loss for what to do. As a Guardian, he thought the most appropriate thing to do might be to simply finish what the Nightmares had started. He could do it so quickly too. All it would take was a nice sturdy sand dagger, and the age long fight would be put to rest. For good. 

It seemed the proper thing to do, and yet, it bored Sandy. He'd never really enjoyed killing. It didn't suit him. One quick stab and the fun was over. 

No, no, that didn't sound wonderful at all. 

As he continued to contemplate this dilemma, Sandy stood, nibbling his thumbnail in thought. 

_What to do, what to do…_

Just as he was pondering this, the Sandman heard a soft groan. When he looked down, he could see the Boogeyman stirring, perhaps drawn from unconsciousness by the sound of boots rustling through the grass. 

Now that just couldn't be allowed. 

The Sandman knelt and swiped a hand lazily over Pitch's eyes. A mere dusting of Dream Sand was all it took to send he Boogeyman back to sleep. With a slow exhale, the Nightmare King fell limp, and Sandy could not help but notice the lovely way that his head lolled to the side, exposing a long stretch of pale grey neck. 

Without thinking, he reached down to stroke his thumb along the sharp jawline. He found that the Boogeyman's skin was surprisingly soft. Oddly, it sent a shudder down his spine. The pleasant kind. 

Before he realized what he was doing, Sandy was already parting the tattered remains of Pitch's robe, fully exposing exposing more of the pale chest. He'd never noticed before, just how frail the man was. Beneath the heavy black garment was something near skeletal, with gangly limbs, knobby joints, and ribs that stuck out. 

For some time, Sandy just stared, transfixed by the gentle rise and fall of the Boogeyman's chest; the only visible proof that he still lived. He wondered just how long Pitch had been lying there, unconscious and alone. It couldn't have been very long, judging by the fresh blood and bruises that marred his body. 

Amidst his staring, it finally occurred to Sandy that he was still out in the open. And while there was not a child in the world who could see Pitch, Sandy was a different case. But it was not the children that bothered him. As he looked up into the sky, he saw that there was no moon yet. Good. He thought it might best suit his…intentions if Manny were to be kept out of the picture. At least for the time being.

Wordlessly, Sandy gathered the Boogeyman into his arms and mounted his cloud once more. According to his whim, the sands began to shift, molding themselves into the form of a hot air balloon. As the craft lifted into the clouds, Sandy took one last look around. There was not another spirit in sight. Perfect. 

 

Back at the Dream Caslte, Sandy had made a bed for his newly arrived guest. Whenever the Boogeyman awoke, he would find himself in a room of modest size, decked with tasteful gold furniture, and lit by a single round window. But Pitch would not be opening his eyes for quite some time, of that Sandy was certain. In fact, he'd made it so. For now he would leave the Nightmare King to his slumber, give his wounds the time to heal. In the meantime, the Dream Weaver could find other ways to entertain himself. 

The days that pass move at an excruciating pace. 

More often than not, Sandy found himself pacing around the castle, in search of some means by which to occupy himself. At times like this, he was inevitably drawn back to the guest room, where he would find Pitch, still sound asleep. He would linger here, watching, waiting, and occasionally sipping tea. It was boring business, but alas, a necessary task. If his fingers grew impatient, he could sate them by stroking a hand through the unruly black hair. 

But inevitably, he grew restless. It was for this restlessness that he found himself creeping into bed with the Boogeyman one night. He settled down beside him, giving Pitch a slow once over before setting his head down onto the pillow alongside his. Sandy tried very hard to close his eyes, but found it difficult. His hands twitched, his toes curled and uncurled, and his arms and legs felt hopelessly full of energy. He wanted to touch, and for a while, he was content to merely do as always and card his fingers through the dark, coarse hair. Soon though, his hand was traveling. It moved along the curve of the neck, traced the prominent collar bones, and worked downward over the chest and abdomen, coming to a stop just above the belly button. 

Funny, he thought only humans had those. 

Sandy wasn't sure at exactly what point he'd fallen asleep, but he woke the next morning with his arm still draped over Pitch's midsection, cheek pressed up against his chest. 

 

It was a little while longer before Sandy grew restless again. By this time, about a week had passed, and many of the cuts and bruises that covered Pitch's body had begun to fade. On this particular night, Sandy went a step further; he crawled on top of the prone form, straddling him, but made no further movements. He felt an odd sensation in his hips as he sat there; a kind of discomfort that tempted him to move. To _grind_. 

Oh, but he couldn't yet, not while the Boogeyman was not conscious to experience what he was going to do---wanted _so badly_ to do. He would have to be patient, even if it was tempting, even if it had been eons and eons since last he'd fed that particular need. 

And it _had_ been eons. After all, who could ever think of sweet, pudgy, innocent, cherub-faced Sandy in such a way?

The answer was no one, and personally, he couldn't blame them. There was nothing much to find appealing about a glorified flying cream puff. Even he had to admit that. 

Those days were over (thank the Moon), and now, the Sandman was going to do something he'd liked to have done several thousand years ago. That was, once Pitch woke up. And he _would_ wake up. In fact, he was waking up now.

But now was not the right time, Sandy thought. And so when Pitch made a soft sound, twisting as came to, Sandy did as he had done before and swiped a hand over the Boogeyman's eyes, sending him once more to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

When Pitch came to, the first sensation that registered was the strong scent of chamomile; the second, was the sharp sting that made his eyes water when he tried to open them. It occurred to him then that he was no longer in his lair, a realization that brought both a sense of relief, and of apprehension. If he wasn't in his lair, then where was he? Who had brought him here?

Pitch mused the briefest of hopes that perhaps he'd finally made it to _the Other Side_ ; that he must have slipped away amidst the torture and ended up where all spirits inevitable came to rest. But those hopes were dashed quickly, for as he tried to push himself up onto his elbows, he felt the burden of sore limbs weight him down. His body ached everywhere, but it at the very least it was a dull pain, one that touched every inch of him, but with little ferocity. 

The next thought to cross his mind was the question of just how long he'd been unconscious. The last thing he could clearly recall was being thrashed about his own lair amidst a flurry of ravenous black shapes. At some point, he'd hit the ground hard, so hard that the impact sounded with a loud _crack_ ringing through his skull, blinding him first with a bolt of color, and then darkness. This must have been where he'd fallen unconscious; everything that came after was a blur. 

Pitch tried several times to open his eyes. With each attempt he managed to force them open just a tiny bit further, before the light became to much to handle. It was painful; his eyes stung like fire, but it was a temporary bother. Eventually he'd adjust to the light, and be able to see again. 

When at last his vision cleared, Pitch lifted his head as much as he could without straining himself, taking a glance around the room. It didn't seem quite as bright as it had before, and now he could make out the scattered shapes of furniture pressed up against the walls. He spotted a nightstand only a few feet away, and in doing so, finally realized that the surface which supported him was not ground, but a mattress. 

So he was in a strange bed, in a strange room. 

Pitch thought this realization should alarm him--and it did, to a degree--but at the present he felt far too weary to make much of a fuss about it. He felt boneless, weighed down, and on top of that his eyes still ached from exposure. 

With a groan, he allowed his head to fall back onto what he assumed was a pillow and closed his eyes again. Wherever he was, he couldn't stay here, that much was certain. Something a bit less certain was when or whether he would have the energy to make an escape; and preferably before the owner of this strange bed returned. 

For the second time, Pitch attempted to pry himself from the bed, but his own fatigue continued to way him down. He was exhausted, undoubtedly from his encounter with the Nightmares. Their assault had been merciless; as of yet, Pitch was still uncertain how he'd managed to escape them, not only with his life, but with all parts of his anatomy intact. 

Whatever benevolent powers there were, he assumed they must finally be smiling down on him. Well, perhaps smiling was too positive a word. 

However futile, Pitch persisted in his attempt to sit up. It wasn't until he felt something (fingers) brush against the side of his face that he realized he had company. 

Pitch flinched, yelping in surprise. Apparently there was now a tall blonde stranger sitting at the edge of the bed. How long had he been there? And why hadn't Pitch noticed him until now? 

Pitch went still, giving the stranger a suspicious once over. It was a young man, with peach-cream skin, sandy blonde hair, and liquid gold eyes. He was dressed casually in a billowing gold blouse with dark leather pants that clung just a bit too tightly to his long, skinny legs. 

"Who are you?" Pitch asked eventually.

the stranger only smiled, tilting his head. 

Pitch shifted uncomfortably, clutching at the thin silk blanket that covered him. He hadn't really noticed (or cared) before, but apparently he was half naked, and for some reason that bothered him. 

Something else that bothered him was the nagging feeling that he'd seen this young man before. There was something about his eyes that unnerved him, sending a dull prickle of fear down his spine. 

At first glance, he was unassuming. Pitch noted the ascot tied loosely about the man's neck, as well as the warm orange blush that tinted his nose and cheeks. And then there was the way the man smiled; golden eyes half lidded, almost drowsy looking. 

Pitch was reminded of a portly little Guardian with buck teeth and an annoying tendency to nose around where he wasn't wanted. Whoever this man was, he bore a dangerously close resemblance to that horrid Dream sprite. 

Come to think of it, Pitch even recalled a time long ago when he'd run into a certain star pilot during a certain war. Sanderson had been a much different creature then (physically anyhow), a far cry from the ugly little cream puff he was today. In fact, he'd looked a great deal like…

Whatever grimace Pitch had been wearing, it quickly faded. For a brief moment his face went blank as he was struck by realization. 

This stranger--this person didn't just _look_ like Sanderson. He _was_ Sanderson!

Apparently the Sandman had been waiting for this realization to dawn, as his smile only spread wider when Pitch paled, reeling back in shock. 

"S-Sanderson!" Pitch stuttered, finally finding the strength to push himself up onto his elbows. "Where am I! Why have you brought me here!"

But Sandy had no interest in answering questions at the moment. Now that Pitch appeared to be fully awake (or as awake as he was going to get) Sandy casually moved closer and straddled him, using his hands to push his shoulder's back into the mattress. 

The response this illicit from Pitch only widened his smile even further. He looked down and saw confusion twist the Boogeyman's features. 

"Sanderson what--" but before Pitch could finish, Sandy pressed a hand over his mouth, silencing him. 

It was here that the confusion shifted, turning into something a bit more like distress. Pitch's eyes widened ever so slightly, his brows creasing in a way that sent pleasant shivers down the Sandman's spine. 

Admittedly, there was something about the other's fear which had always fascinated Sandy. Being the Bringer of Dreams, it was rare that anyone regarded him with anything apart from genial pleasantries and childlike wonder. And while there was much to love about all this, Sandy had come to realize that fear could be equally gratifying, if not more so. 

But he couldn't have just any old fear. No, this was a special case. It was different when a child feared you, not that any child ever had feared the Sandman. Sandy found nothing wonderful or empowering about frightening children. They were young and innocent; they had never hurt anyone. 

But Pitch…Pitch was a very, very different case. 

Sandy looked down when he felt the Pitch begin to struggle beneath him. Sandy closed his eyes, head lolling back as he savored the friction Pitch had so generously and unwittingly provided for him. It took a great deal of self control not to grind his hips forward in response, and an even greater deal of self control not to part with the moan that had fought it's way to the back of his throat. 

Sandy sighed, feeling himself slip into a pleasant daze as the Boogeyman continued to struggle weakly, muttering muffled curses against his palm. At some point, he though he registered the sensation of fingernails digging into his forearms; of sharp teeth crunching down on his index finger. It hurt, but he found it difficult to mind. 

Pitch's struggles could only entertain the Sandman for so long. After a while, he opened his eyes again and withdrew his hand, allowing grunt to escape the man below him. 

"Sanderson what the _fuck_ are you doing!"

Pitch had probably tried to sound wrathful and intimidating, but Sandy could still hear a tremble in the man's hoarse voice. He ignored the demand for an explanation as it was reiterated, and instead focused his attention on the two gray hands pressing into his chest, attempting to force him back. With surprisingly little effort, Sandy grasped the thin wrists and pressed them to the mattress. As dictated by his whim, bonds of sand coiled around them, weighing them down. 

With nothing more to get in his way, Sandy took a moment to appreciate his work. He canted his head to the side, admiring the way his gold cuffs stood in start contrast with the dark grey skin. It brought a smile to his face as he imagined those same bonds decorating other aspects of the Boogeyman's anatomy. He couldn't help but think that a matching gold choker would look so splendid wound around that slender neck. 

Pitch's breaths were heavy as Sandy trailed a finger over the ridge of his collarbone, tracing his way around the shoulder and down toward the bicep. 

"Stop this!" Pitch demanded, though his voice lacked a certain confidence. 

Sandy merely placed a finger to his lips; a polite request that the Boogeyman be silent. But Pitch was less than eager to comply. 

"Whatever it is you're doing, stop it at once! I can't imagine the Man In the Moon would condone such actions from a _Guardian_!"

Sandy frowned. Pitch had a point, he admitted, and yet the Sandman could not be bothered to care. Perhaps Manny would disapprove, and then perhaps he might not give a damn. Sandy thought it was worth the risk. And besides. The Man in the Moon need not be notified of this little game. 

He gave a shrug, and then snapped his fingers when Pitch made for another protest. This time, he was silenced by a cord of sand summoned as a makeshift gag. It was only a temporary accessory (Sandy didn't prefer the use of such; he thought it dulled things) but Pitch looked panicked all the same. He started to struggle once more, but could not break the bonds that held his arms pinned to the mattress. And besides, he hardly had the energy to fight. 

Sandy leaned in a bit closer, one hand cupping the Boogeyman's cheek as the other moved downward, slipping beneath the covers to slide along the exposed abdomen. Pitch squirmed, a futile effort to dislodge the Sandman from atop him, but his actions only served to arouse the Guardian further. 

He leaned down, touching his cheek to the place where neck met shoulder. Pitch had cool, smooth skin that felt so pleasant when pressed up against his own. With a deep, slow exhale, Sandy allowed his eyes to fall shut, lowering the rest of his body until he was lying flush against the from beneath him. Even with a layer of blanket separating them, Sandy could feel the other's rapid heartbeat thrumming against his chest. 

For a while, Sandy let him self lie there, enjoying a few moments of peace and stillness. Pitch was quiet, but for the rapid, panicked breaths and the occasional rustle of motion against the sheets. Sandy almost giggled whenever Pitch tried to fight his way free. Didn't he understand that it was pointless? He wasn't going anywhere. 

At some point Sandy allowed himself to fall asleep. By then Pitch had stopped struggling, falling silent and still. Were it not for his wide, terrified eyes, Sandy might have assumed that he had fallen asleep as well. But he hadn't slept. All throughout the night, as the Sandman slept soundly upon him, Pitch was wide awake. So too was he awake the next morning, when Sandy came to with a quiet yawn. 

Upon waking, the Sandman regarded Pitch with a look that was somewhat unreadable. That was until the smile crept back onto his face, gold eyes sparking to life. With a lazy swipe of the hand, the sand gag dissolved from Pitch's lips, leaving him free to speak. 

At first Pitch said nothing, but he was soon emboldened, perhaps by the sensation if cream-skin fingers reaching down to card through his hair. 

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, breathless. "Haven't I been punished enough?"

Sandy thought it an amusing choice of words. Punished? Considering their history, it would seem the most obvious way to explain the situation. But in all honestly, vengeance was the last thing on Sandy's mind. True, Pitch had caused him terrible grief in the past, and quite recently at that. But the Sandman had never considered himself the vengeful type. He thought it a waste of time, spending all your energy in brewing anger, plotting ways to avenge your losses. He'd much rather move on and forget the whole mess had ever happened.

Rather than give an answer, Sandy pressed a kiss to the Boogeyman's cheek, an action followed by several more kisses to the man's face and neck. Pitch seemed inclined to object, but only managed to gasp when Sandy gently nibbled at the exposed neck. 

Despite a moment of what could easily be mistaken for pleasure, Pitch started to struggle again, this time with much less fervor that before. He must have been further exhausted from a night without sleep. Sandy almost pitied him, considering the idea of putting him back to sleep. But he decided against it, as he thought it'd be much more entertaining to have Pitch awake for this next part. 

Without preamble, Sandy reached his free hand beneath the sheets where it slid its way down Pitch's leg, fingers curling around his inner thigh. The hand then moved a little higher, hovering over the laces of his pants and coming dangerously close to one of the more personal aspects of his anatomy. 

Sandy smirked when he felt the other begin to twitch, twisting his hips in an effort to angle them away and out of reach. How silly. 

The hand followed, dancing playfully along the rim of his pants, teasing their way from one sharp hipbone to the other. 

Pitch was trying to say something (a plea perhaps?) but whatever sounds he made were muffled against Sandy's palm. 

This went on for only a few more minutes before Sandy took a sudden change of direction, dismounting the other and slipping off of the bed. 

Pitch seemed to relax slightly at this, perhaps assuming that the Sandman was finally finished with him. But his assumptions proved to be wrong.

In one languid movement, Sandy pulled the blanket out of the way, leaving it to collect in a heap on the floor. When he looked, he saw further confusion claim the Boogeyman's features, and then, as he settled back onto the mattress, that confusion turned itself back into dread. Already he must be running through the possibilities of what would happen next, and if Sandy knew anything about the mechanisms of Pitch Black's mid, none of them were at all pleasant. 

Sandy took his chin in hand, very strongly considering wether he should fulfill any of those horrid premonitions. But he decided that, for the time being, it'd be best to restrain himself. He had all the time in the world to play out his little game. There was no need to rush. 

Wordlessly, Sandy slipped from the room, returning soon after with a gold tray of tea and confections. He set the tray down on the nightstand and seated himself at the edge of the bed, teacup in hand. Every so often he would take a sip, and then glance down at his unwilling companion. 

At some point he reached over to the tray and selected a piece from the assortment of sweets. It was a dark chocolate biscuit, Sandy's personal favorite. Rather than enjoy it himself, he held the biscuit to his companion's lips, giving him a nod of encouragement; but was somewhat disappointed when Pitch refused to accept the offering, lips curling in disgust. 

Sandy only shrugged at this ( _your loss Pitch_ ) and then popped the treat into his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just gonna apologize in advance for this chapter .___.
> 
> So...yeah. Enjoy.

Sandy thought it best to take things slowly, though this was a thing easier said than done. 

He'd left the Boogeyman safely tied down, arms pinned above his head where they could not get in the way. He had not replaced the bed sheet, as he found it far more convenient to leave the thing where it had fallen. It was an obstruction, one both he and his guest could easily do without. 

Over the next few days, Sandy struggled to keep his urges in check. He indulged himself frequently, but only in small, scattered doses. Here and there he might stop in and run a hand over the trembling body of his companion, or smooth a hand through his hair. Occasionally, he might let himself wander, fingers reaching to more intimate regions of Pitch's figure. Here, he'd receive a muffled yelp---inevitably he'd had to replace the gag, as Pitch was heavily inclined to vocal objections---or, if he stroked just the right grove, moans and shudders. 

It was excruciating, all that self control, but nothing the Sandman couldn't weather. He'd gone far, far too long without intimacy to rush things now that he'd found himself a plaything. He would make it last, and he would savor every single minute. 

For the moment, his little touches were enough to sate him, but they could not do so forever. There was only so much he could get out of stroking his way up and down the ashen skin; by now his fingers had memorized every bend and curve of the Boogeyman's anatomy. Well…almost. There were yet a few places he hadn't explored, but as for those, he was saving them for a special occasion. 

Eventually, Sandy gave himself permission for more than a few lustful strokes here and there. By now, he'd allowed himself the use of his tongue, a privilege he thoroughly abused; kissing and licking any surface he could find. He'd ran hot stripes up the side of Pitch's face; planted wet kisses to his chest, his biceps, his hips. And he'd bitten; teasing grey skin with a scraping of pearl white teeth, just hard enough to leave shallow marks in their wake. 

All of this was rewarded with trembles and shudders from the other man. He'd twist his body, fighting uselessly against the gold cuffs that restrained him. If so inclined, Sandy might remove the gag and listen to the grunted curses and yelped pleas of his unwilling guest. At times there was rage, but it scarcely broke through the fear and horror that thickened the man's weak and husky voice. 

The anger amused him, but Sandy found that his trembling gasps and feeble whimpers were a far more pleasing sound. At times, he longed so badly to hear them that he forewent all tenderness and bit down hard, earning a sharp cry from the other man. It was lovely, but it never lasted long enough enough for the Sandman's tastes. He wished to hear these cries drawn out, lingering in the air, but Pitch was evidently too full of pride not to bite his own tongue in an effort to stifle them. 

In time, Sandy grew impatient with his self restraint. Up until this point, he'd done all he could to appease his desires without giving himself over to them in full. From the beginning, he'd felt the impulse to strip away all barriers and savor the long lean body. Yet he'd stayed his hand (figuratively) and he'd waited. 

And waited. 

Until one night, the Sandman had grown tired of waiting. 

He'd slipped into the guest room, silent as ever. Pitch barely seemed to notice him; it was not until Sandy sat himself down on the bed, the mattress dipping under him, that the Boogeyman dared to glance his way. It was brief; once he'd spotted the other, Pitch quickly turned his head away, as though the very sight of Sandy meant ruin to his eyes. 

But Sandy couldn't have this. Gently, he cupped the other's cheek, turning his face so that their eyes met. Pitch was terrified; that much could be seen, and it sent a magnificent shiver down the Sandman's spine. Already, he could feel the heat building between his hips, casting waves of restlessness to the rest of his body. His fingers twitched, eager to touch. And they did touch, setting lightly upon the exposed abdomen and tracing circles there. 

There was an almost loving look upon his face as Sandy gazed down into the Boogeyman's wide eyes. They looked past him, refusing to make eye contact, and Sandy wanted to chuckle. He brushed a hand through the dark hair, tucking away stray pieces behind Pitch's ear. It really was an unruly mess, not unlike his own, dirty blonde hair. 

Pitch squeezed his eyes shut when Sandy bent down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. But he didn't stop there. He kissed his eyelids, and the bridge of his nose; he kissed his chin, and high, sharp cheek bones. With each bit of contact, Pitch's body grew just a little more tense, fingers wriggling as he struggled yet again to break free of his bonds. But his efforts were as useless now as they had always been, if not more so. 

In the time that he'd spent at the Dream Castle, Pitch had only managed to grow weaker. It was in part, from lack of sleep, but ultimately it was his own waning influence that withered him. Every day, young minds were learning to forget all about the Boogeyman, and when they did, a little part of Pitch Black suffered for it. And while Pitch would not die, as a Guardian might, from lack of belief, the toll this took was still very great. 

Not that Sandy had a problem with that. If anything, it better served his purpose that Pitch was so weakened. It left the Boogeyman with just enough fight in him to be considered amusing, but not disruptive. 

Ordinarily, Sandy would begin his nightly session by straddling Pitch and reacquainting his lips with the man's clavicles. But tonight, he had something different in mind. His hand worked its way down to the hem of Pitch's pants, resting there for only a moment before slipping under, traveling down the length of his thigh, caught between skin and fabric. As he did this, Sandy cupped his free hand behind the man's neck, lifting him slightly as he nuzzled his face against his stomach. 

Here, Pitch might have whimpered, growled even, but the gag kept any sounds trapped behind his black lips. Later on, Sandy might consider removing it, but for now, he was happy to leave it in place. 

His hand slipped free, taking a moments rest before returning to pluck at the laces of Pitch's pants. He took his time, tugging carefully at each cord like a child daintily unwrapping a Christmas gift. They came undone, and Sandy went about removing those mettlesome trousers for good. After tonight, they would be needed no longer. The fabric clung tight, but nevertheless, the article had soon found a new home on the floor of the guest room. 

Exposed at last, Pitch squeezed his eyes shut even tighter than before. He must have felt so helpless lying there, naked and bound; defenseless. Sandy could only imagine the thoughts that must be surging through that mind of his; horrible, awful, premonitions of what was to come, of being used and invaded. It made him almost giddy. 

The next bit, admittedly, was a bit difficult on Sandy's part. Already, as he forced the other's legs apart, settling between them, Sandy could feel his own body quaking. His heart began to race, and his breaths felt suddenly shallow; thick. It was not fear, he acknowledged, but anticipation that had set this off. He was dry mouthed, and something like hot coals had settled in the pit of his stomach. 

But worst of all was what was happening between his legs. He felt an ache there, spreading fire and electricity to the rest of him. He starved for contact, and it had been such a long, painfully long time that he thought he might die of anticipation. 

Looking down, Sandy could see that Pitch had opened his eyes again, and was watching him. They were wide with pleading, brow creased upwards. To anyone else, it might have seemed a pathetic sight, but the Sandman could not bring himself to think it anything but beautiful. And in doing so, he failed to stop himself from leaning forward, cupping the grey face between his hands and pressing their foreheads together. 

Lying like this, their bodies flush, Sandy could feel the rapid thrum of Pitch's heart beating against his own as the grey chest heaved beneath him, breaths panicked; erratic. As he closed his eyes, Sandy moved his head into the space where neck and shoulder came together, hands coiling around the other's waist. He held tight, almost tight enough to bruise as he nuzzled his face against the dark skin that so contrasted his own. He wanted to hold him like that forever, and for just a moment, he thought he might. 

But the heat was building, reminding him of why he'd gone through all this trouble in the first place. He could save his quiet appreciation for the afterglow; for now, he had work to do. 

Sandy's hands shook as he fumbled with the belt around his waist. His blouse had come off easily enough, but this proved a bit more difficult. He felt feverish, lightheaded, and amidst this nervous dither he found it difficult to coordinate with his own fingers. For a while they seemed unwilling to cooperate, but eventually Sandy managed to undo his belt buckle and tuck his thumbs beneath the hem of his pants, peeling them away. 

And with that, there was nothing left to do; save the one thing he'd been building towards for all this time. Sandy got to work, ignoring the way Pitch averted his eyes when his legs were spread a second time to make room for the Sandman. A bit harder to ignore was the way his own body trembled as he set him self in place, taking in short, shallow breaths to calm himself. He would have to take his time, be gentle, for if he rushed, he might break the poor thing. And that he simply could not allow. 

Given the chance, Pitch might have gasped when he felt himself breached by two dry fingers. The gag prevented this, but Sandy could still appreciate the way the man's body tensed, back arching, face twisting in miserable shame. Sandy wanted so badly to kiss him then, but found him self too preoccupied, working his fingers in and out of the others body. It'd been such a long time since he'd been with someone that he had almost forgotten about this part. It was a good thing then, for both of them, that he'd remembered. 

It was not until he added a third digit that Sandy thought to remove the gag. With a thought, the sands dissolved, leaving Pitch free to make whatever sounds he liked. Naturally, his first impulse was to beg. Sandy could hear the cracks in his voice as the other whimpered his name, pleading with him to show mercy, to let him go free. 

"Please, I don't---I don't want this. Please!"

Sandy smiled at that. Because in all this time, it apparently had yet to occur to Pitch that his own desires had no sway here. He was in the Sandman's realm now. The things he wanted no longer mattered. 

Once his companion had been well stretched, Sandy removed himself, both hands resting on Pitch's knees as he allowed the other a moment to catch his breath. He was already panting (or was that sobbing, it was hard to tell with his face turned away) and Sandy found it very difficult not to sit there, just taking it all in. He reached out a hand, turning the other's face to him and saw that yes, there were indeed tears in those eyes; though he imagined Pitch must have been fighting so hard to keep them down. 

A faint smile came upon Sandy's face as he swiped his thumb at the corner of Pitch's eye to smudge away a tear. He began to wonder then if Pitch had ever been touched like this before ~~ever been _fucked_ before~~ and if so, just how long had it been. Who had he been with then? Male? Female? Spirit? _Human?_ Sandy was chuckling then, as he somehow found it ridiculous trying to imagine Pitch being intimate with anyone. Selfish, loveless, cold hearted Pitch. 

Or was he so cold hearted?

The Sandman remembered each and every dream he'd ever given, and to whom they were given. And if memory served him, he could recall the image of butterflies fluttering about over the Boogeyman's head as he slept in the snow. He thought it so strange, that of all things, the Bringer of Nightmares would see in his dreams ~~his most secret fantasies~~ something so innocent as butterflies. As for what they meant, Sandy did not know. Admittedly, he did not always understand the dreams he gave. But that was something he kept to himself. 

There were no words to describe what Sandy felt as he finally sank himself into the other, and if there were, he had not the presence of mind to say them. He could only gasp, swallowing hard as the intense sensation raged through him, burning him up from the inside out. His insides were on fire, and he was almost afraid, as he thought they might melt, or be turned to ash by the time he was through. 

He went slow, careful not to overwork himself. Eager though he was, he kept having to remind himself that he was out of practice, that he needed to ease himself back into it. He'd thought this would be more difficult, but as it were, he found it hard to move at all. His whole body was shaking, overwhelmed by even the slightest sensation. Perhaps it was too soon; perhaps he should have better prepared himself, used his hands. Regardless, he didn't want to stop now; couldn't stop, not when he was already so close. 

It took all of his will power not to cry out when the first wave hit, and even then he had to bite his lips to keep the sound from escaping him. He felt dizzy, unstable; like the whole world was spinning around him, blurring into nothing but color and sound. And the sound he loved most was that of the voice now sobbing into his ear. 

He couldn't make out the words anymore. He wasn't sure if it was just the blood roaring in his ears, or if the voice had only morphed into chokes and sobs and phrases that couldn't quite be finished. Whatever the case, he wouldn't be hearing it much longer. At some point, whatever part of him that was still listening noted that the room had gone quiet, that the voice had died off some where. Eventually, he'd also noticed that the body beneath him was now limp, that it no longer struggled against him. 

Sandy opened his eyes then ~~when had he shut them exactly?~~ to see that Pitch was still very much awake. Well, somewhat. His eyes were open, but there wasn't much in them. They were staring off somewhere, fixed on nothing in particular. And his face, Sandy noticed, was oddly serene. 

He stayed like that for the rest of the night, silent and still, even as Sandy came, muffling a single scream against the bend of his neck. And when it was over, Sandy lowered himself down, arms happily giving out under him as he splayed himself out atop the other, body limp and spent. He was breathing hard, just barely realizing through the exhaustion that there were tears in his own eyes. 

He wasn't sure at what point it happened, but eventually, Sandy felt himself falling asleep. By then his breathing had slowed, and the tears had been blinked away, but his body was still reeling from what he'd experienced only moments ago. As he drifted off, Sandy wondered briefly how sore he would find himself the next morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://mikaeriksenweiseth.tumblr.com/post/47138814017/sandy-pitch-fan-fiction-by-missdoodle-this-is#notes
> 
> http://mikaeriksenweiseth.tumblr.com/post/47217129110/jesus-christ-this-fan-fiction-makes-me-really#notes
> 
> Just gonna leave these here. Some wonderfully drawn art for this fic by http://mikaeriksenweiseth.tumblr.com
> 
> <33333333333


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally intended to end this story with 4 chapters but uh....yeah that's not happening. Ideas keep sneaking up on me.

Pitch had expected to wake up and find himself in his lair, sprawled out on the floor, face to the ceiling, as he had in the aftermath of so many other nightmares. But when Pitch opened his eyes, it was the not the darkness he saw. His eyes watered at the sight of blinding, glittering gold that was the ceiling. That was the first reminder.

The second was the way his body ached. He felt warm, uncomfortably so. As he shifted, he felt something chafe against his wrists, and remembered that they were bound. The next thing he noticed was that he was not alone. Someone was with him in the room---no, _on top_ of him. That person was asleep now, a head of frayed golden hair resting against his chest. 

Golden Hair.

_Sandy!_

He was fast asleep, arms wound limply around Pitch's waist. A moment later, Pitch realized something else. That Sandy wasn't wearing any clothes…neither of them were. 

It all started to come back to him then. He was in the Dream Castle. He'd been here for days, a captive. And Sandy….Sandy had….

Suddenly, Pitch couldn't breath. His chest felt tight, burdened; something had stolen the air from his lungs. He closed his eyes, trying to will himself back to sleep. Or….no, he was already asleep. He was asleep, dreaming. At this moment he was back in his lair, _alone_ , and having the worst nightmare of his miserable existence. 

Pitch stayed still for several minutes, eyes squeezed shut, telling himself over and over again that he was in a dream, that none of this was real. Whatever had happened, whatever had been done to him was a product of his own mind, and nothing more. 

But it _felt_ real. _Smelled_ real. 

He could feel the heat of Sandy's body against his own, feel his slow heartbeats as he slept upon him. And he could smell the lingering odors of chamomile and sweat and….god he didn't want to know what else he was smelling. 

Something like a sob escaped his throat; a choked, heavy sound. His impulse here was to cover his mouth, muffle the sound before it could disgrace him; but his hands were bound. He couldn't move. 

_This is all real_

Pitch was breathing heavily, but still he couldn't get enough air. He felt like he was suffocating, like Sandy's body was a lead weight, and it was crushing him. 

He wanted to disappear; to find a dark hole where he could curl in on himself and pretend that none of this had happened. 

But it had happened. It was still happening. Sandy was still here, laying upon him, skin against naked skin. Pitch felt ill then, realizing with some measure of disgust that there was something warm between his legs. 

Something warm.

_Between his legs._

Pitch groaned, stomach twisting. He was going to be sick. Something had been inside of him, used him, and he was going to be sick. 

He let his head loll to the side, body tensing as he tried to stay calm, failing miserably. He started to tremble, arms tugging uselessly against the bonds that kept him in place. His pulse was racing, and he could feel tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to streak down the sides of his face. 

_No no no no please!_

He felt warm, too warm. His skin was burning; eyes stinging with salt tears and blinding light. He tried to close them, but the darkness brought no comfort. He could still feel Sandy's body upon his own; arms around his waist; legs intertwined; slow, sleepy breaths brushing his skin. 

_No no not real it's not real no no!_

He must have finally started to cry, because the next thing he knew, there were fingers brushing at the corners of his eyes, smudging the tears away. Sandy was awake now, looking down on him with a bemused, inquisitive smile, as though he didn't quite understand what he was seeing. 

"Go--get off!" Pitch had managed to form words as he choked through the tears, "Get away from me!"

But Sandy's smile only broadened. He pressed on hand over Pith's mouth, and with the other, wagged an admonitory finger. 

Pitch tried to shake him off, but he was weak, and Sandy was immovable. He closed his eyes, but could still feel as lips brushed against his face, tracing along the wet trail of tears. The next thing he felt was a hand moving to caress the side of his body, stroking along his ribs and moving down over his hip, his thigh. He screamed in protest, but the sound was muffled. 

He struggled. He couldn't bear the thought of being used again; of being _invaded_. He would take the Nightmares and all their torment; he'd hide away, lie low, never harm another child just _please please_ he couldn't go through that again. 

Sandy spent a good long time roaming his body, free hand caressing the skin while the other kept him silent, firmly pressed over his lips. Eventually though, he seemed to grow bored with that. He sat up, perched upon Pitch's abdomen, and cocked his head to the side. He looked curious, expectant, as though waiting for Pitch to speak to him. 

Pitch stared back at him, unsure of what to say now that he could speak freely. 

His lips parted, then closed again. What was he to say? He could not beg for freedom, as that had already failed him. 

"Am…am I…" he swallowed, steeling himself, though his efforts failed. "Am I being….punished?"

He hated how his voice trembled. Sandy must have thought him weak and frail, and at the present this was not untrue, but he hated---HATED---that anyone should see him like this. Least off all Sanderson, whom he hated. Not only his dire enemy, but the man who had...

Whatever confidence he had wavered when he reminded himself that he was now at the complete mercy of another. That this man, who now had total power over him, could very well do again what had already been done. The thought terrified him, and Sandy must have felt this, because he smirked, head tilting to the other side. 

For a while, Sandy only stared, and Pitch felt himself tremble all the more as he tried to sink into the mattress, willing himself to disappear. 

Eventually, Sandy made a move. He swung his leg around, dismounting the taller man to sit on the bed, and for a blissful moment, Pitch made the mistake of thinking that Sandy was about to leave him. This, he soon realized, was not the case. 

To his horror, he felt his legs being pried apart and when he dared to look, he saw the Sandman making himself comfortable between them. 

His heart stilled. It was happening again. 

A fresh wave of tears hit him, and this time he didn't bother to fight them as he begged, pleaded, and screamed for some form of mercy. His cries fell on deaf ears, and then ceased all together when he felt his body breached a second time. Sandy's fingers were soft and gentle, but for all their tenderness, they felt like sand paper inside of him. It burned, sending tremors through every muscle in his body. He wanted to cry out, but the breath had gone from him, his tongue was lead, and his throat was tight. He could only lay there, wide eyed and slacked jawed as the Sandman did his work, stretching his insides. 

He wasn't sure how long this had been happening before Sandy pulled out of him, but when he did, Pitch had only a moment of respite. All too soon, something else was being pressed into his body, and with it came the sensation of fingers digging into his hips, holding him in place. 

Inevitably he wouldn't really remember what had happened next. He had been aware of what was being done to him, but in a way, he felt…removed, as though he had his body in one place, his mind in another. He was numb; sounds and sensations were dull; he only barely registered the repetitive thrusts that jolted his body over and over. In that sense, it was surreal, like a dream. 

When next he was fully aware of himself, Pitch realized that the movements had stopped. Sandy was no longer between his legs, but was lying beside him, a creamy arm draped over his chest. When he looked, he saw that Sandy was not asleep. His eyes were open, half lidded, and it occurred to him that he had been lying there for quite some time, watching him. 

Nothing was said, and a little while later, Sandy got up and left the room. Alone, Pitch spent a great deal of time watching the ceiling. One by one, his senses were starting to come back to him. He could hear, but the only sound was that of his own breathing. He could feel, but that only brought back the pain in his hips, and the chaffing of sand cuffs against his wrists. 

Sandy was in full dress when he came back into the room, Pitch knew this when he heard the click of heeled boots against the floor, and turned his head to see a man well dressed in a tailored black peacoat. Under different circumstances, he might have found it strange that Sanderson of all people should dress this way. It seemed more his own style than that of the Sandman. But Pitch had not the presence of mind to notice this. As it were, he had trouble comprehending what was being done when Sandy bent over him, softly pressing a hand upon his eyes. 

~*~

Pitch was asleep in an instant, going limp as his body sagged into the mattress. With a snap of his fingers, Sandy dissolved the cuffs at the other man's wrists and then gathered him into his arms.

When he carried Pitch into the bathroom, there was already a steaming tub of water waiting for him. He was careful not to disturb the other man as he set him down into the water, easing his head to lay back against the rim of the tub. The water was hot, but not scalding, and it's surface was clouded with pearly foam. There was a strong scent of jasmine in the air; Sandy took a deep breath of it, relaxing only momentarily before he stood and rolled up the sleeves of his coat to the elbows. 

Sandy had an array of oils and shampoos at his disposal. Thought it might come as a surprise to some, the Sandman had quite a taste for fine perfumes. He enjoyed the scent of a sweet smelling aroma, those that pleased the senses and set the body at ease. More recently, now that he had the time, Sandy had taken to enjoying long, luxuriant baths. It was, in his opinion, the very best way to relax after a long and stressful day, not that he had many of those anymore. 

Sandy had no trouble being gentle as he scrubbed down Pitch's body one limb at a time. He washed his hair, behind his ears; even scraped the dirt from beneath his finger nails. Sandy was somewhat of a "clean freak" in this respect. He preferred his habitation spotless, and his companions well groomed. Pitch Black was no exception to this rule.

Once clean, Sandy lifted Pitch from the bath and laid him out on a fresh towel; Pitch was left to dry there while Sandy set about changing the bed sheets. When all was prepared, Sandy brought Pitch back into the bedroom and tucked him in, with a warm blanket to cover him, and a pillow beneath his head. Sandy settled down next to him, making a place for his head on Pitch's chest. He fell asleep there, and when he woke the next morning, Sandy would find the Boogeyman still resting beside him.


End file.
